Sense of Touch: Love and Duty at Anne of Brittany's Court

by Rozsa Gaston

  She stood, dusting off the folds of her gown as she squelched an urge to reach out and touch Philippe’s shoulder blades with the same firm grip she had used on Petard. The youth’s back spread out before her, only half an arm’s length away. The scent of him wafted up to her, tickling her senses with the fresh tang of male youth and sweat. It was pungent, something that usually made Nicole hold her breath when men passed nearby.

  This time, she breathed in deeply. Suddenly dizzy, she closed her eyes, but the heat and hum of the cicadas only made her dizzier. She stumbled back against the plane tree for support; before she touched it, Philippe grasped her arm.

  “My lady. Are you alright? Did Petard hurt you?”

  “No! Not at all. I’m fine, it’s the heat, that’s all,” Nicole murmured. She tried not to tremble under Philippe’s touch. Was this how Petard had felt a moment before, under her own touch?

  Philippe’s other hand grasped her other arm. Gently, he directed her down, onto the grass at the foot of the plane tree. She complied, holding her breath so as not to breathe in any further scent of him. She would faint if she did. Or worse, reach out and pull him towards her.

  Petard stirred restlessly behind Philippe. His nostrils flared as if scenting something new in the air.

  “I will bring some water,” Philippe said, releasing her arms.

  “Good,” she agreed, needing a moment to recover herself. A sharp pang caught her heart as she watched him turn and run to the fountain at the entrance to the stable-yards. Hurry back before I am gone forever; out of your reach and into the arms of a husband I didn’t choose.

  Again, she closed her eyes and rested against the tree. Near her she could feel Petard’s warm breath. She stretched out her hand, palm up on her knee, neither beckoning nor moving.

  In a minute she felt the warm, thick muzzle of the horse nosing her gown then resting on her palm, his velvety lips grazing her skin.

  She laughed and opened her eyes. There stood Philippe de Bois, several lengths away, tankard in hand, his eyes rooted on hers. They blazed greenish-blue in the sunlight, moving from her face to her feet. She followed his gaze and sat bolt upright, flinging down her gown over her ankles. With his muzzle, the horse had inadvertently dragged the hem of her robe up over one knee. Nicole flushed to the roots of her hairline then put her hand up to cover her face.

  “Do not worry, my lady.” Philippe reached her and squatted down. “I will not share such a pretty sight with anyone,” he said in a low voice as he handed her the tankard.

  Again, his young male smell flooded her senses. If she was going to recover from her dizziness, she needed to get busy making the poultice. But something more than the heat was sapping her will to move. She felt an alert authority in her stillness, a new way to exercise power; one that appeared to work most effectively on the males around her, horse or man.

  She drank deeply and handed the tankard back to Philippe. Then she struggled to her feet, feeling his hand grasp her arm once again. She could have shaken him off, but she didn’t.

  He might have released her arm once she stood, but he didn’t.

  Instead, they stood there a moment and gazed at each other. Then slowly, ever so slowly, Nicole lifted her hand and covered Philippe’s hand with her own. Neither of them noticed the slight figure that slipped around the side of the barn behind them.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Thank you, my lady,” he murmured back. His eyes shifted to her mouth and rested there.

  Finally Nicole broke away, holding her arm where he had grasped it. “I’ll be back with the poultice,” she told him, a newfound authority in her tone.

  “Soon, I hope,” he answered.

  “Soon,” Nicole echoed. Quickly, she walked away, back up to the house. This time the cicadas hummed more loudly, as if in agreement that something more was in the air than had been there the last time she passed their way. Something more was there; a sharp energy that heralded childhood’s passing and the arrival of something exciting and new in its place.

  “He’s putting weight on his hoof. Look!” Philippe was already at the barn when Nicole arrived early the next day.

  In her hand, she carried the remainder of the poultice. She planned to spread it out over three more doses, since she had run out of moldy bread. Indeed, the horse looked better.

  “Dom said he slept through the night,” Philippe continued, referring to the son of the garden designer from Naples who helped out at the stables. “He is doing better, my lady!”

  “That’s fine, but let’s keep dosing him,” she said, motioning to Philippe to remove the bandage now on the stallion’s hoof so she could put on a fresh one. “We want Petard back in the tournaments, don’t we?” she asked, referring to the jousting tournaments the king and queen held at least twice a year. She didn’t understand why men wished to put on heavy armor and ride at each other with lances to try to hurt their opponent, but she understood that men would be men. Their strange sex seemed to have an enormous amount of pent-up energy that needed to be let out one way or another.

  Secretly studying Philippe, she wondered how he released his energy. He seemed calm and diligent at his duties, but there were times when they worked with the horses side by side when she felt a sort of crackling energy coming from him. Was it simply because he was male or was he responding to her nearness? Whatever it was, it brought out a newfound stillness in her, something she sensed was inherently womanly, a quality she hadn’t known she possessed before meeting Philippe de Bois. It was like discovering a new version of herself.

  “There now, we’ll get you back to as good as new,” Philippe addressed the horse as he carefully unwound his bandage. Once it was off, he leaned in and inspected the wound.

  “Bleeding’s stopped and it looks less red,” he commented.

  “Good. But we should put the poultice on till it is all gone,” Nicole counseled.

  “Then what?”

  “We pray the poison is fully drawn out by the bread’s poison, or we pray that the bread I put under a damp cloth last night has some mold on it by tomorrow,” she reasoned.

  By the next day, Petard was looking even better and was able to walk about. Nicole had managed to find another crust of moldy bread, and had made a new batch of medicine.

  “Let’s treat him for one more day,” she told Philippe, remembering that her mother had always used this particular remedy for at least three days, even if the patient seemed better. That day, Nicole continued to paint strips of cloth with the poultice and handed them to Philippe in the morning, and noon to bind the stallion’s wound. As she leaned toward Philippe, she noticed his blondish-brown hair was plastered to his head with sweat, separating into strands at the ends. No matter how taken she felt with the youth from Agen, it was undeniable; his hair was filthy.

  “You should wash your hair,” she blurted out.

  He stared at her, his face changing color before her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean your hair is all sweaty and—and, well, smelly.” She didn’t mention that usually he smelled good. Very good.

  “My lady, I will pour a bucket of water on my head this evening after we’ve put on the final bandage.” Philippe’s face looked red with embarrassment; something else was there, too. Was it sadness? Suddenly, she regretted her impulsive remark.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that your hair usually looks so nice. It doesn’t match the rest of you when it’s all greasy and dirty.” She put a hand to her mouth to stop herself.

  “I—it’s just that I never really did wash my hair. I mean—I just pour a bucket of water on my head, and that’s it,” he stammered.

  “Silly boy! Do you mean to say you’ve never had your hair washed? Then why did it look so good when I first met you?” Again, she put a hand to her mouth to stop anymore babble from escaping.

  “My lady, it was the lady cook who washed it the day I arrived. I don’t know how to do it myself.” He looked sheepish, as if he’d j
ust admitted he didn’t know how to ride a horse.

  “Then who washed your hair before? I mean in Agen?”

  “It was the wife of Jeannot, my master.”

  “But did your mother not teach you how to do it?”

  Philippe’s face changed. He turned his back to her, and the words that fell from his mouth were barely audible. “She is long gone, my lady.”

  Nicole’s heart ached. “Mine too, Philippe. Mine too.” Unthinkingly she reached out and put her hand on his forearm.

  He didn’t shake it off.

  “I have an idea,” she said, to get them off the subject of what was unbearable for both of them to think upon.

  “You seem to have many, my lady.” He kept his eyes averted, busying himself with Petard’s leg. “What’s that, then?”

  “Finish up with the bandage and we’ll go wash your hair in the horse trough.”

  “But—but—” He lifted his eyes to her, a mixture of interest and alarm in them, and she saw his shadows had passed. She knew what those moments were like. They stole upon her at unexpected times, when a certain scent or the sight of a fine lady in a crowd reminded her of her loss. For a brief instant, Nicole would be wild with joy, but then the realization that her mother was gone forever would grab at her heart and squeeze it hard. Unbearable moments. Thankfully, they didn’t come too often.

  “Don’t argue with me. Cook’s soap is too rough for your hair and I know her scrubbing style,” Nicole declared.

  “Aye, ‘twas a bit harsh,” Philippe agreed. “I’ve been keeping my distance ever since.”

  “I’ll do it better. Besides—” she wrinkled her nose, “you really need it done if you want anyone to sit next to you at dinnertime.”

  “No one sits next to me at any time, my lady. I take my meals under the tree there and I sleep in the hayshed.”

  “Poor you,” she blurted out.

  “Not so poor me, I’m thinking.” He gave her a look that told her he didn’t think he was so poor at all.

  “Don’t think; just meet me at the water trough as soon as you’re done.” Her advice was more for herself than for him. Everything about time spent with him advised her not to think, just be. She wasn’t sure what breeze had blown in such unsound counsel, but it was sweet and fragrant, and set her insides aflutter.

  Petard blew air out of his lips at that moment as if to remind them why they were there. Philippe turned to the stallion and put his hand on his mane.

  “I’ll go fill it with fresh water,” Nicole told him.

  “My lady, are you—are you sure?” His words were hesitant, but the look in his eyes told her otherwise.

  “Of course I am. I can’t stand smelling your hair like that any longer.”

  “Oh.” He looked taken aback.

  Nicole reached out to touch his forearm again, but this time she pinched it. Mysterious new feelings swelled inside her, urging her to experience something new, something that had nothing to do with reason.

  As she moved between the well and the trough, filling it with fresh water, she began to worry. What was she thinking to lay her hands on a strange youth’s head? She looked around. It was just past noon, and no one was about. Most likely, the stable-hands were all asleep under a tree after their dinner. She would get the job done quickly, before anyone saw them.

  Within a few minutes, Philippe arrived, his face bashful and uncertain like a small boy meeting his tutor for the first time.

  “Lie there and put your head over the trough,” she ordered him.

  Philippe eyed the trough doubtfully. “Is that water fresh?”

  “As fresh as you are.” She made a face at him.

  He returned it in kind. “Fresher, I’d wager. As fresh as you, then.”

  “Oh, undoubtedly. Now lie down and shut up.”

  The youth obeyed, his eyes looking up at hers with a wistfulness she hadn’t seen in them before. Over the past few minutes, he had confused her with his new expressions more than he had the entire few weeks they had known each other.

  “Close your eyes,” she ordered.

  He complied.

  With one hand, she supported his head as she slid a thin plank under it. That done, she lifted the full bucket of water she had drawn and, with both hands holding it, she poured it over his head, careful to avoid his face.

  “Ahh, that’s cold!” he complained, his body jerking.

  “Quiet!” she thundered. It was rather fun bossing him around.

  Philippe shut his mouth, closed his eyes again and settled down.

  Nicole dipped her hands into the fresh water in the trough, and then lathered them up with the bar of soap she had found in the stable. She prayed it wasn’t as harsh as the one Cook used in the kitchen, but it would have to do. Laying her hands in his hair, she began to massage his scalp.

  “Ahh . . .” The sigh that escaped Philippe this time was different in tone from the previous one. Underneath her hands, he visibly relaxed, his head surrendering its weight to her.

  “Don’t open your eyes, I don’t want soap going into them,” she ordered. I want to look at your face without you knowing.

  It was such delicious pleasure to study the lines and curves of his well-cut features. As a young unmarried lady, she was supposed to avoid looking into a man’s face at all times, unless it was her father, uncle, or the king. But why was it that men were allowed to gaze at women all they liked, yet women were supposed to notice nothing, and never stare back? Meanwhile, they noticed everything, as everyone knew, yet weren’t allowed to let the person they’d noticed know. As usual, it was unfair, and, as usual, she would find a way around it.

  “Ummm. . .” Philippe expelled, opening his eyes for a second.

  “Shut your eyes till I’m done!” she barked, trying to sound stern. Inside, she felt just the opposite. A new sensation was playing within her, humming and vibrating, as if her insides were dancing.

  She leaned in closer, and began splashing the water up from the trough onto his head to rinse out the soap. As she did, the fresh, young scent of him stole over her.

  She breathed in deeply, and as she did, Philippe opened his eyes again. The tip of his nose touched the fabric of her dress just between her breasts.

  “I’m not done yet!” she scolded him.

  “Take your time,” he replied, closing his eyes.

  Harshly, she splashed water onto the silly smile that appeared on his face.

  He burst out laughing, infuriating her.

  For that, she poured the next bucket of water all over his face. “That’s for your rudeness!” she yelled.

  He jumped up, and shook his head like a dog after its bath.

  Quickly she took cover so that he wouldn’t get her all wet. It was bad enough that there was now a wet spot on her bodice, right in the middle of her bosom. She could imagine what Cook might have to say about that back in the kitchen; or little Marie de Volonté if she caught sight of her before she changed.

  Grabbing a cloth off the fencepost, she threw it to Philippe. “There, dry your head and be done with it,” she said. She felt guilty as soon as the words left her mouth. He hadn’t been particularly rude. And she hadn’t particularly minded when he had opened his eyes to find his nose nestled between her breasts. She couldn’t really blame him for how it got there.

  She watched as Philippe clumsily swiped at his hair with the cloth.

  “You’re such an oaf. Here let me do that,” she bossed, going over to him and grabbing the towel from his hands. Quickly she slapped it onto his head, ruffling his hair in all directions as his arms flailed to either side of her. Giggles welled up inside her, but she stifled them.

  After a minute, he stopped flailing and stood in surrender to her efficient maneuvers.

  Seeing he had stopped resisting, she took her time fluffing and ruffling his hair, his face hidden from her by the cloth. Finally, she was done.

  She flicked the towel from his head. Prepared to offer another cheeky retort to wha
tever he might say, she was stunned to see his face.

  Philippe’s expression was sad, his eyes looking somewhere far in the distance. He stood still as stone. But even worse, a single drop of water rested on his cheek, although the rest of his face was thoroughly dried. Was it what she thought it was?

  “Have I hurt you?” She was so shocked, she didn’t know what to say.

  The youth shook his head and looked down.

  “Philippe, was I that rough? I’m sorry, I thought we were joking. I—I—”

  “My lady, ’tis not that.” He shook his head again, his gaze remote, looking toward the ground away from her.

  “What is it? What is it, Philippe?”

  “My lady, forgive me. It was wonderful. I mean—thank you.”

  “Then what? What happened?” Without thinking, she put her hand on his arm and looked into his face.

  He returned her gaze, his lips pulled in as if he was holding himself in. For a moment they stood there in silence, their eyes locked together. Nicole could see that something deep and private lay in his thoughts. Whatever it was, she knew she should tread delicately.

  “You can tell me,” Nicole said quietly.

  “My lady, it just reminded me of—of another lady who washed my hair when I was young.” He looked down again, and this time the tear was unmistakable. It rolled down his cheek and onto the ground.

  “Your mother,” Nicole breathed out.

  “Yes.”

  Together they stood, each with eyes fixed on a different spot, far away and long ago. Then the stable-manager rounded the corner and the moment was over. As Philippe greeted him, Nicole ran back to the house, her emotions a jumble from all she had learned about the youth from Agen.

  “So what was it like?”

  “What was what like?” Nicole hugged her arms to her chest so Marie couldn’t see the wet spots on her bodice. Noticing some linens on the kitchen table, she picked them up as if to take them somewhere. She would have to put them out in the sun to dry as soon as she escaped to her bedchamber to change.

  “Paris, silly. Was it wonderful?” The younger girl looked at her with wide eyes.